


Betty, The Bat, and The Bird

by Piper



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Ugly Betty
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Gen, Never to Be Finished, One Shot, Sequel, Up for Adoption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piper/pseuds/Piper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of my first Ugly Betty/Batman crack crossover fic <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/127465">Betty and the Bat</a>, in which after season one of Ugly Betty, Betty goes to work for Bruce Wayne has his new personal assistant. This sequel starts right after the last ends and adds a new member of the family to the equation, Dick Grayson. [The series is unfinished, won't be finished, and is up for remixing and adoption :-)]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You'll definitely want to read the original first! This was written waaaaay back in the day but for some reason was never posted here. I've also included two unfinished chapters which litterally end mid-sentence, but I thought some original fans of the series would have liked to see where this was going.

Betty didn't know how many times she'd say it over the past week. What she did know was that it didn't matter how many times she said it, she was going to have to say it hundreds and hundreds of more times before the week was over. There were only so many ways she could phrase a simple 'A statement will be made later this week. It's my week off! No comment!' It wouldn't be long before it turned into 'I can't read the minds of millionaire playboys. Leave me alone!' She had no idea how the press and paparazzi had gotten their hands on her cell phone number as it was, and she certainly wasn't appreciating the fact that they kept calling her. It was bad enough that they were cogging up her voice mail at work. She could barely get through the junk to the real messages. Yes, it was her week off, but she still liked to keep up.

She could remember being annoyed when the week off was first proposed. Convincing her to take it hadn't been easy and Betty didn't like to admit that it had taken both Bruce _and_ Alfred to get her to promise not to come into the office. She'd been annoyed and incredibly hesitant. Betty knew good and well that Bruce wasn't Daniel, but she couldn't help remember how every time she'd taken a day off from Mode, Daniel ended up in bed with an underaged model who then blackmailed him for cover spreads.

Alright, that had only happened once, and it hadn't been on her day off. Still, the intrinsic lesson stood: Don't leave millionaire playboys alone for more than twelve hours. They tended to do stupid things.

Like trying to adopt sixteen year old boys and write them into their wills.

"No comment!" Betty squeaked, hurriedly flipping her phone closed. She tossed it down onto the wooden coffee table as if it was going jump up and bite her ear.

"Betty!"

As a writer, she was disappointed that she couldn't find a word other than 'whimper' to describe the noise that came from her lips as she practically dove underneath the afghan on the couch when her sister's voice rang out. The small blanket only covered her shoulders and head, and her pajama shorts were too garish a clash of green and orange to blend in with any self respecting furniture. She would be found.

" _Betty!_ " Whether it was 'Betty Suarez' or just plain 'Betty', she was getting tired of hearing her name called. She could hear her sister's heels clomping across the wooden parlour floor and the noise only made her pull the blanket further down over her head. "Betty, I can see you."

"No you can't." It was then that Betty realised Hilda didn't know the rules of the game, which were that if one was curled up in a fetal position on the couch with a blanket over their head then no, they could _not_ be seen by the rest of the world. An afghan was essentially an invisibility cloak; Betty didn't understand how Hilda could remain so utterly unaware of the norm.

She sighed just before sneezing, decidedly allergic to the fluff shedding off of the afghan into her hair and onto her clothes. And then suddenly the afghan was gone, leaving Betty staring up at a rather annoyed looking older sister. "What?" 

"You said I could give you a manicure today, remember?" And as Betty's eyes adjusted to the light she could see that Hilda was indeed holding several bottles of nail polish between fingers which looked as if they'd just been buffed and polished themselves. 

Betty gave a small shake of her head. "I can't. I'm working."

"You're lying on the couch."

"I am not," she protested, limply reaching her hand out and patting around for her cell phone. She found it after a moment and clutched it in her hand. "I'm waiting for Bruce to call."

"Aren't you off this week?" Hilda pointed out.

"I know, but this is important, and—" Betty found her words cut off with a yelp of surprise when her phone began ringing and vibrating in her hand. She nearly dropped it onto the floor before she'd maneuvered it into a position where she could see the number on the screen. It was out of area, but one she didn't recognize and so she left it flipped closed and attempted not to smash it as she clenched her fist. These people needed to stop calling her. What if Bruce had been trying to call at the same time and couldn't get through because of the media tying up her phone?

Granted, there wasn't much of a chance of that actually happening, but if there was one thing Betty was good at, it was worrying herself into an odd sort of tizzy.

Hilda shook her head and sighed as she walked around from the back of the couch. The nail polish was dropped down onto the coffee table and a small struggle ensued as she reached down to pry Betty's cell phone out of her grip. No amount of "stop it!" or "give it back!" would stop her, and finally Hilda triumphantly held Betty's old Motorola in her hands. "You need a mani _and_ a pedi," she announced in a tone which booked no argument. 

"I don't have _time_ , Hilda."

"Yes you do. C'mon." And just as suddenly as her cell phone had been dragged from her hands, Betty found herself being pulled off of and away from the couch. This? Was not fair.

Hilda was stronger than she looked and her nails hurt when they dug into her skin, so Betty finally stopped trying to struggle, and allowed her sister to drag her through the messy living room and into the side parlour where Hilda had set up her small beauty boutique. 

Boutique because, according to Hilda, it sounded classier. Personally, Betty didn't really feel that their house was classy enough for something called a boutique, but she wasn't going to mess with Hilda's aspirations and slight dellusions.

Her sister shoved her down into the beautician's chair their father had bought for her. "Tell Mama Hilda all about it."

"Huh?" Betty raised an eyebrow at her sister.

"Mama Hilda… I'm trying it out."

"Throw it out instead." She made a face. "Promise me you'll never say that again and I'll let you paint my nails."

Hilda beamed. "All twenty of 'em, right?"

"Right," Betty nodded. Now that she was in here –and that she'd located her cell phone on the window ledge where her sister had placed it– she figured that it would be alright. Maybe her phone wouldn't ring and she could simply fall asleep. There was no rule saying a person had to be awake to get their nails done, and Betty felt as if she hadn't slept since nine o'clock on Monday evening when a proverbial bomb had gone off in the Gotham Amphitheater. 

Bruce was ridiculously nice to her; sometimes she felt as if he was almost too nice. It was funny how his generosity always ended up with her getting shot at, bombed, threatened by the newest Gotham villain, or in some other way having her life flash before her eyes. First the ball (she never wanted to run into the Joker ever, _ever_ again), which she really had no reason to be at, nor did her sister, nephew, or best friend. She'd been very lucky in the billionaire boss department, and she knew it. The only difference between Bruce and Daniel in that respect was that Daniel's generosity usually didn't lead to some encounter with a man who seemed determined to remind everyone why clowns were always considered so scary.

She hadn't been afraid of clowns before the ball, but after the fact she felt that she had every right to admit that she was and face no laughter from those around her. She still didn't know how, with this newly developed fear of hers, she'd ended up at the Gotham Amphitheater for a night at the circus.

Thinking back, Betty realised that she should have known that would be a bad idea. The circus, of course, equaled clowns. And clowns equaled bad people who didn't stay locked up in Arkham like they were supposed to– though he was there now and she reached over to knock on wood to keep him there.

She was always amazed at the things discovered in retrospect, hindsight being twenty-twenty and all. When Bruce had asked her if she'd wanted to go to see Haly's Circus she _should_ have said no. Instead, some good natured teasing about playing third wheel to him whichever blonde he'd be escorting that night had ensued, before she'd ultimately said yes. She shook her head just thinking about it now. They'd have all been better off at home watching a movie or, in Betty's case, playing Dance Dance Revolution with Justin.

Instead, she'd ended up in the Amphitheater, sort of awkwardly trailing behind Bruce and his lady of the night. To be fair, she'd actually done work before the actual show started. It was the first night the circus was in town and, though Betty hadn't realised it, it was something of an event for all of the Gotham socialites. A good deal of networking went on before the lights went down and the spotlights came up, and Betty actually felt as if she was doing her job as she scribbled down appointments and lunch dates and tee-times Bruce arranged. Her trusty legal pad had been nearly filled by the end of the night and, sadly enough, the idea of organizing it all into her planner the next day –colour coded with post-its of course– actually excited her.

It was bad luck that the clowns came out first, but her legal pad came in handy again as she held it over her face. But after they'd finished, Betty started to enjoy what she was watching. She hadn't been to the circus since seeing the Big Apple Circus as Madison Square Garden, and she swore she'd only been ten or nine at the time. She was, to her amazement, having fun instead of having clown induced nightmares. 

Usually attuned to Bruce's odd mood swings, Betty didn't notice his change in demenour towards the second half of the show. In her defense, she was a sucker for baby elephants and tiny children riding atop them. It was only later, as her phone rang incessantly, that she'd beat herself up for not noticing. For not seeing the look on his face that she knew meant 'trouble'. She'd seen it so many evenings, walking behind him at various meetings or dinners, and when she did see it, she would subtly (sometimes moreso than others, for lying still wasn't her forte) pull him aside as if something tremendously important had just happened. He would make apologies, they would leave, and ten minutes later Batman would appear somewhere where help was needed.

It was a good plan and it worked, but only when she recognized the signs.

Bruce had become tense, his eyes drawn away from the trapeze artists high off the ground and instead focused on a group of men sitting in a box seat just above the rest of the crowds. When Betty finally did follow Bruce's glance, she didn't recognize the men, but she did notice that they, along with Bruce, looked completely unsurprised when the unthinkable happened.

She remembered it almost in slow motion, whipping her head around just after Bruce, only to watch as the two trapeze artists, a man and a woman, fell some forty feet to the ground. No net and cut ropes dangling from above.

"Boss Zuco," was what she was almost sure she'd heard Bruce mutter underneath his breath. Even if it was what he'd said, the name meant nothing to her. 

The show had ended then as paramedics flooded into the tent and Gotham's elite couldn't seem to leave fast enough.

Her phone rang, and her hand jerked out from underneath Hilda's brush. She had to lean a long ways to reach, but with it finally in her hand she looked at the number, sighed, and flipped open the phone. "No comment. Mr. Wayne will be making a statement sometime in the next forty-eight hours." The phone snapped shut.

"I don't get why it's such a big deal," Hilda said, snatching her hand back. "Bruce's doing a good thing adopting that kid, isn't he?"

"Well… yes. But… I mean… it's not that simple. It's just-- yes and no…" Betty's sputtered answer was rather pathetic and the disapproving look on her face gave away all too much.

Her sister shook her head. "See, now that's why he gave you the week off, Debbie Downer."

"That is not true," Betty said, lips pursed. "He gave me the week off because I only took three days off after the Ball happened and now he thinks I've been working too hard, because all of these crazy things keep happening to us." The partial truth, but the truth nevertheless.

After the ball Bruce had simply wanted to fire her. Not because of anything she'd done, but, in his own words, because the city was becoming too dangerous for him to have an assistant who _knew_. She knew he was worried about the Joker knowing who he was and thus, knowing who he associated with, but for some reason that hadn't bothered her in the way she was sensing Bruce thought it should. Perhaps it was because she just didn't see herself as that important; it was nice (and, well, life-threatening) that Bruce thought she was important enough for the Joker to go after, but she just didn't see it the same way.

They'd compromised. She'd taken a few days off to recover and when she'd come back she just hadn't let him mention it. Then the mob had to go and murder two trapeze artists while she was in the audience and they'd been back in the same position; Bruce telling her she needed to be anywhere _but_ Gotham.

This time it was a week off; unallowed to set foot into Gotham until Bruce took care of whoever Boss Zuco was. He blamed himself for too many things. 

But she couldn't tell Hilda that, and a rather disparaging bit of her brain reminded her that her mouth had been rather agog –agog was a good word, said her writer's brain—when Bruce had told her, outright, that he was taking in the newly orphaned Dick Grayson, son of the fallen Flying Graysons.

She wasn't a downer, she was a realist, and _realistically_ she worried about Bruce bringing a sixteen year old boy to live with him and Alfred in a giant manor with a crime fighting operation in the basement. It worried her more that he hadn't called her to say anything about how whatever it was he was doing was turning out. Betty really disliked finding things out from Extra and Access Hollywood; she had ever since Daniel.

"Betty!" Hilda groaned, rolling her eyes and finally dropping the nail polish brush in exasperation. Both sisters sat still for a mere five seconds, listening to Betty's phone ring shrilly.

"I have to—" Bruce's name lit up brightly against the backlight of her phone's screen. 

Hilda threw up her hands. "Go, go, go…" 

Nail polish dripped down her legs, just beneath the cuffs of her pajama shorts. Betty knocked over the bottle jumping up from Hilda's chair, dashing into the living room to answer the call of her boss. Hilda's work was destroyed almost immediately as Betty practically stabbed the answer button on her phone and held it up to her ear. 

"Hi, Bruce," she said, speaking just as if she were just outside his office as always, but all the while grabbing the afghan Hilda had pulled off of her and snuggling back underneath it. "You have two hundred and thirty seven new messages."

He'd called. Perhaps now all would be right with the world.


	2. Chapter 2

It was only after Alfred had watched Betty beat the bread dough into a near pulp for ten minutes that he decided perhaps something should be said. The bread wasn't likely to survive any further kneading, if one could really call the pummeling it was receiving that. Gently, as was his way, Alfred reached out and eased the board out from underneath the younger woman's flour covered hands. "You seem frustrated, Miss. Suarez."

"Does it show?" Betty asked, unintentionally blowing a strand of hair away from her face with a sigh. She stumbled just slightly as she reached back to sit on the wooden stool sitting by the island in the middle of the large kitchen. The small seat had been in the room since Bruce's childhood and still gave not even as much as a squeak of protest when Betty finally perched atop it. "Sorry. I hope I didn't ruin the dough."

"Not at all." And to prove as such, he quickly molded the bread into the appropriate shape before laying it down on the tray which would eventually go into the oven. "I believe you're worried about something?"

"Ugh," she groaned. Her head fell forward onto the table and she cradled it in her arms. Her next words were muttered. "It shows."

"Slightly." Sometimes a white lie was necessary when it came to delicately navigating a situation. "Might I ask what's wrong?"

Slowly, Alfred watched Betty's face reappear as she turned to glance at him. "It doesn't bother you? At all?"

"What doesn't bother me, Miss. Suarez?"

She opened her mouth to speak almost instantly, but it seemed words had tried to move faster than her thoughts and she stopped to collect them, biting down on her lower lip. Alfred simply waited patiently and reached for the last bowl of dough to knead. 

After a moment his patience as rewarded. "Bother is the wrong word. I'm _worried_."

"Again, I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific." Alfred pressed the dough down on the wooden board, careful to treat it well before arranging it on the stove-bound tray as well. "Out with it."

"The hearing today. I've got butterflies… the bad kind. I'm just worried." Betty sighed again, shaking her head. She was quiet for another moment, and then, "I just— you know I'd do anything for him, Alfred, but just don't think he can _do_ this! He doesn't have the right to. I mean… it just seems– if it were Justin I'd flip out."

"And yet it's not, and you are anyway." A small smile touched Alfred's lips. He slipped oven mitts on and started towards the stove, trays of raw dough in hand. "'Flipping out' as you say."

"I know it's not Justin. But it's just… _weird_."

Alfred couldn't say that he altogether disagreed with Betty's sentiments. They were valid. As haltingly expressed as they had been, he still understood the crux of her problem with the entire situation which the residents of Wayne Manor –both temporary and permanent– found themselves in that morning. 

"I mean," Betty continued, pushing hair behind her ear. "You know him better than I do, but… is Bruce really the father type?"

He closed the oven and turned the dial. "I do not believe anyone ever truly knows the answer to that question until they're faced with the possibility and opportunity; and people who are 'the type' are not always faced with the opportunity. Have you noticed the difference of late?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sure if you think back, you'll note the good humour Master Bruce has kept the past month."

"You mean not walking around glaring all the time? A sixteen year old kid is not a substitute for Prozac."

Betty wouldn't understand immediately, Alfred knew this. Perhaps if she had, one day, been with Bruce for as long as he has, she would be able to read into his decisions without a second thought. But for now, Alfred understood the frustration that tinged her words and halted her speech. It was hard to wrap one's mind around Bruce Wayne's decision. Hundreds of members of the press and paparazzi couldn't figure out his motivation; it was little surprise that Betty was having trouble by herself. Especially when one factored in what she _knew_.

Alfred suspected it was the extra knowledge Betty had which made it harder for her to understand exactly what Bruce was doing . As Batman, Bruce risked his life night after night, coming home to face the older man in various bruised and broken states, often going to work the next morning only to have his faithful assistant swipe a layer of concealer over his face to hide the black eyes. Together they were a well oiled machine. Alfred knew his place and Betty knew hers. They were old enough to know and understand the risks of what their boss did, and the risk it put them at if his identity was ever discovered. 

What did it mean to throw a child into that?

"How long can you lie about black spandex and rubber anyway?" 

It was not exactly the way Alfred would have put it himself, but the sentiment was echoed. He didn't doubt Bruce's parenting skills – there was a learning curve with each new parent – but he did wonder exactly what the man planned to do concerning his nightly escapades. They'd been sparse for a few weeks now, after dealing with Anthony Zuco, but Alfred knew Bruce too well to expect the mission to a take a seat to the side for anything. Even a sixteen year old boy who'd just lost his parents. If anything that was fuel to Bruce's fire, for people in his city simply didn't get away with things like that.

Unfortunately, there were some things that couldn't be pushed to the wayside, and parenting was one of them. 

There was a hearing today, one which would most certainly go in Bruce's favour as Gotham's favourite son. There would be little to no question as to whether or not he was fit to raise a teenager, and even the incident from last year would be forgotten. After all, how stupid would a person have to be to burn down their ancestral family home _twice_? No, the judge would simply see what had happened the year before as a fluke. The boy had been living at Wayne Manor for the better part of a month now. The finest laywers money could buy, a personal favour from Harvey Dent, and what Alfred suspected was an already deep forming bond within Bruce has sped things along. Richard Grayson would leave the courtroom a Wayne, of sorts, and Bruce a father. 

Alfred quite liked young Master Richard, but he wondered if this was all fair to the boy. It was hard to ask these things while trusting Bruce at the same time, but it was all he could do.

He washed his hands underneath the tap before turning around to glance at Betty again. "Will you be staying in Gotham for the day, or shall I drive you to the station at the appropriate time?"

"No, I'm going home tonight. I only came in to answer the phones this morning, but then Bruce said I should just ignore them… it was all press, and my throat was getting kind of dry saying 'no comment' over and over again. Then, I mean… well, I should go to the press conference after the hearing, I guess, but I don't want to intrude or anything. I haven't even met Richard yet— I mean Dick. See? The girl who doesn't know his name definitely doesn't need to be showing up on the big day." Betty was blushing by the time she finished speaking, looking almost overwhelmed. Alfred couldn't completely blame her; the last month had been hectic, even by Wayne Manor standards. 

"I doubt it would be seen as an intrusion, though I understand," he replied. "I'll just put this cake in the oven and bring the car around."

"You can't make me stay with promises of cake," she said with a small smile. 

"I'll put aside a piece for the office tomorrow," Alfred winked at her. 

Betty's grin widened and Alfred was pleased to see that her disposition improved slightly as he continued to move around the kitchen. It didn't take long from there to scrape the batter he'd made the day before into the silvery coloured cake pan. Later, when it had come out of the oven, he would ice it in chocolate (which Master Richard had shown a love for early on) and then decorate with the appropriate congratulatory lettering once he was absolutely sure that things had gone the right way. Wouldn't do to jump the gun and jinx the process. 

Not that Alfred believed in that sort of thing, of course. 

It wasn't until he'd shut the oven door that Betty spoke again. "You really think this is going to go well?"

At that, Alfred nodded as he removed various kitchen accoutrements from his person. Oven mits went back to the hook above the counter, apron went on the hook behind the pantry door. Betty hopped down from the wooden stool and followed behind him as he led the way from the kitchen. 

"He just usually takes so much time to think about things. A month is sudden for him."

They exited the kitchen together, Betty trailing just slightly behind him. He shortened his strides so that she would be able to more easily keep up. "He had the best of examples, you know."

"What?"

"His father," Alfred said. "Was an incredible man. If Master Bruce is anything like him, then Master Richard is incredibly lucky."

"I should stop worrying, shouldn't I?" she asked him. He watched as she did a thing he doubted she would ever cease to do; stare wide-eyed at the large, opulent main foyer of the manor. He would leave her there for the moment and go around to the garage to bring the car to the front of the drive. 

"Perhaps bring it down to a simmer." Before setting foot through the front door, Alfred laid a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "You worry because you care deeply about a man I've looked after for over thirty years now; I certainly don't fault you for that." 

It was with one gentle squeeze that Alfred turned from Betty. She did have a train to catch after all, and from the look on her face, it appeared as if she would need some time to think. It was time he was perfectly willing to give.


	3. Chapter 3

If Betty looked perplexed as she held the phone to her ear, it was because she honestly was. Odd, how this feeling tended to only come over her when she was forced to deal with people from Mode. Not Daniel, mind you, and certainly not Christina. Even Wilhemina never left her feeling this flabbergasted. Wilhelmina, evil and all, at least made _sense_ in her own special, evil, and twisted sort of way. 

Maybe she wasn't being fair, then. It wasn't _Mode_ that left her feeling blindsided with nonsensical and unimportant babbling. Not, it was really just Marc and Amanda. Amanda, who wasn't even supposed to be on the phone. Except, when Betty had tried to tell her that, she'd gotten a response equivalent to, 'this is an A and B conversation so C your way out of it', from the blonde receptionist.

"Amanda, first of all, we're not in third grade anymore," Betty replied, scrubbing her forehead with her free hand. Her other hand held a pen between her fingers, nearly crushing the thing to an untimely death as she tried to remain patient. "Second of all, I called _you_. Actually, I didn't call you, I called Marc. You're the receptionist. You're supposed to patch me through, not patch me through, listen in, and offer your opinion."

"Oh my God, she keeps talking," Amanda said, apparently not understanding that she was meant to, at some point, remove herself from the phone. 

Betty could hear Marc sigh into the phone on the second Mode line. "I know, sweetie, but Willy says I have to talk to her."

"But _why_?" The last word was drawn out into an annoyingly high pitched whine. Betty had to hold the phone away from her ear as she waited for Amanda to finish. 

"I'm trying to get her boss here for the DILF issue," Marc explained.

Betty scowled. "I'm right here, Marc. And it's not called the DILF issue. It The Most Eligible Bachelor issue."

"Aka? DILFs," both Marc and Amanda said in tandem, their giggles ringing shrilly through the phone line. 

Betty was beginning to regret ever return Marc's phone call. Granted it was her job, but still, damn her civility. She could have at least made him wait a day or two. But no, she'd come back from her lunch break, seen the message light flashing and had decided for some odd reason, that calling back Marc St. James first thing that afternoon would be a good idea. 

The message left had been a rather simple one. An initial request and invitation to appear in Mode's Eligible Bachelour issue. It was _the_ issue for single, rich, attractive, and famous men to appear in each year. There were fifty men total, but only three of the finalists received the 'honour' of a four page spread of pictures and an accompanying article usually written by some rising journalistic star of the moment. Bruce had apparently garnered one of the three spots that year, cinching it, according to Christina, with the adoption of Richard Grayson. He was a shoo-in, and they seemed to want him enough to have Marc call personally on Wilhelmina's behalf, instead of the people whose entire _job_ it was to book these people. 

As her nephew would have said, Mode wanted Bruce Wayne something _fierce_ for their issue. That much was true, but they would have to go through Betty first, and though Daniel was still someone she'd do anything for, Amanda's presence on the phone was not helping Mode's case in the least.

No lie, she did maybe enjoy this moment of power over Marc, Amanda, and everyone else at Mode who'd ever given her the stinkeye for actually eating more than a piece of spinach for lunch.

"My boss is not a DILF, Marc," Betty said, at the same time glancing over her shoulder to make sure Bruce's office door wasn't open. This was not a discussion she thought he really needed to hear. 

Amanda snickered into the phone. "He's definitely a dad _I'd_ like to fu—"

" _Amanda_!" Betty buried her face in her hands, just not needing the excuse think of Bruce and Amanda doing anything together. She'd been so glad when after the ball in December, a second date had never been arranged. Betty was firm in her approval of Selina, and so far no one else had met the bar.

It was hard to understand why, when really, the bar consisted of having more than three brain cells and being able to read sentences more complex than, 'see Jane run'. She would never understand where Bruce met these women.

She took a breath. "Marc, I'm really busy today. When you're ready to discuss this like an _adult_ you can call –"

"Betty!" Marc interrupted, his tone rising nearly an octave it seemed like. Betty looked sufficiently shocked on her end, but held her fire. "Betty, wait. Willy really wants this, so let's get serious here. How much for the sexy DILF and the kid on the cover?"

"If you say DILF one more time, I'm hanging up," she warned.

"Fine. How much?" he asked again. 

Betty shrugged, though they couldn't see. "I don't know, I'd have to ask." Knowing Bruce, it would all be donated to charity anyway. He never seemed to keep the money that came from things like this, in the very rare instances that he took part. "You're not going to get Dick though, just tell Wilhelmina that now. It's not going to happen."

"That's cool. I don't do father-son threesomes anyway."

" _Amanada_!" Betty's eyes went wide and she felt more scandalized than she usually did after talking to the blonde. She wanted to cover her ears, hide under her desk, and go ' _LALALALALA_ ' for a good long time. "Mark, I swear I'm hanging up."

She could hear him sigh back in New York. "Amanda…"

"Whatever," Amanda said, obviously trying to make it sound as if she didn't care that she wasn't going to be let in on the conversation. Likely Marc would tell her everything later anyway. "Thing Two just walked by anyway. Do lunch?"

"Did you bring your rice cake?"

"Crouton."

"Splurging!" 

"I had a good night."

"Omigod, you must _spill_."

"Over. Lunch." Betty bit out. "Marc, Wilhelmina's going to be really angry if –"

"Put a muzzle over it, Thing One. Kisses." Betty had the feeling that Amanda's last word was to Marc rather than her, and she was glad to hear the click of the other line, signifying Amanda's departure from the conversation. Maybe it would seem like less of an ordeal now. 

She took a deep breath, meant to be calming. Professional time. "Alright. Now… the DIL—The Most Eligible Bachelors Issue." So much for professionalism. 

"Told you so," Marc said smugly.

"When's the shoot?" she asked, flipping open Bruce's planner. It bloomed with colour, Betty's obsessive compulsive postit-note planning system coming into full view. Not many people could make heads or tails of it, not even Alfred, but she understood, and that was what mattered. 

"February 12th. It's on the stands for May." Marc paused a moment before adding, "Make sure he's still a bachelour in May."

"I don't plan on when my boss falls in love," Betty said dryly, though she was rather sure that come May, Bruce would still be as single as he ever had been– he was going to middle-of-no-where Bhutan for a month, after all. She sighed slightly, shaking her head. Sometimes she wondered if there was more behind the reasons why Selina retreated to Europe so often, leaving Bruce moping around and brooding even more so than he usually did. Dick's presence seemed to have helped, but a sixteen year old boy was no substitute for a girlfriend.

No matter _what_ the tabloids said.

She couldn't help but shudder. The worst of the newsrags had gone absolutely too far with that particular line of gossip.

Admittedly, Marc's voice made her shudder sometimes as well. "Can't you just like, stick one of those orange pieces of paper over all of March and April?" 

"No, because orange stands for 'Bruce Time'." Well, it was true. She only used orange post-its on weekdays between the hours of six and eleven in the morning, and then five and six in the evening. It was all part of the Rules. "Lime green is for meetings, purple is for lunches, Lucius is blue, dates are pink, and –"

"Fine, just keep him in meetings until April 20th. That's when it comes out," Marc interrupted her. 

People really didn't understand her boss, Betty found herself realizing at times. That was the way Bruce wanted it, she knew that, but it was still odd sometimes when she realized the skewed perceptions they had of his personality. He wasn't really the billionaire playboy everyone thought he was, and he didn't chase skirts like there was no tomorrow. Betty actually though he treated women pretty well… especially when she compared him to Daniel. She didn't like to compare the two, but they really did have their glaring differences.

Rubber and bat fetish notwithstanding.

"I'll ask him if he's okay with doing it," she said, finally. She was being exceptionally polite considering that this was Marc, she thought to herself. This entire conversation could have gone badly had she been in a worse mood. "The whole… magazine and photoshoot thing really isn't him."

"We're going to pay him." As if that really did solve everything.

"He's a billionaire." Betty couldn't help but roll her eyes slightly. 

"It's _money_."

Betty raised an eyebrow on her end, shaking her head. Yeah, it was true. No one understood her boss except for her and Alfred, and even she didn't completely get him at times. Alfred had had his entire life to get what made Bruce tick. She'd only had nine months. It had been an eventful nine months, mind, but still only nine months. There were lots of things she didn't understand about him, like why he'd decided to up and adopt a kid on a month's notice. 

But that was neither here nor now. Betty licked her lips. "I'm just saying, it's not definite. I'll ask."

"Willy's going to be seriously. Pissed. Off." 

The smile that came to her lips and lit up her eyes was perhaps not the most innocent that had ever touched her features. It wasn't that she was trying to be mean, but there was a certain satisfaction that tinged her final words. 

"Not my problem anymore, Marc." And with that, she hung up the phone.


	4. Chapter 4

With stacks of papers and a mug of coffee in her hands, Betty stood from behind her desk, knocked, and walked into Bruce's office. "Good morning," she chirped. Her hands were somewhat emptied when she dropped the papers on the side table by the wall. She then headed over to stand in front of Bruce, thrusting the steaming mug of coffee in his face as she looked him over. She took inventory of his various injuries on a daily basis, and though she didn't write them down, she remembered. She knew this was the third time since she'd returned to the office that at least a thin layer of makeup had been applied over his nose. "You look horrible. Rough night?"

"You haven't seen the papers." Bruce took the coffee from her outstretched hand and quickly took a sip.

"No, I haven't. You know, it was weird… I took the ferry over this morning and the guy at the dock was out of everything except for the Star Ledger and the Enquirer." Betty shook her head, giving a sigh. "I hate the Ledger. It's all Jersey news."

Bruce took another sip and set his cup down. Betty watched as he reached down into his leather briefcase, pulling out that day's Gotham Gazette. Betty usually purchased one for herself on the way in (she had a bit of a journalistic crush on one of the op-ed writers) but coming in from the docks that morning had screwed with her schedule a bit. She'd barely had time to pick up a bagel and fruit bowl. She put the bagel in front of Bruce now, along with a small thing of cream cheese and a plastic knife.

She handed him the knife just as he handed her the Gazette. "I ate already."

"Lying, Bruce? At this point in our relationship?" Betty shook her head again and smirked slightly. "Alfred called to let me know you needed breakfast before I was out of Queens. What did I tell you about coming in early _and_ not eating?"

"Page three," Bruce said gruffly. He took the bagel from her reluctantly and Betty looked down at the paper, flipping through shortly to the indicated page.

When she looked down at the page three or four articles greeted her. She skimmed the headlines, noting something about a corrupt assemblyman, and some analysis on the upcoming election (Bruce's friend, Harvey, was running for something), and then the final headline, **Arkahm Asylum Goes Green!: ivy and vines cover entire building overnight**. Betty could only assume this was what she'd been looking for.

"This is page three news?" Betty asked incredulously, looking up at Bruce. Ivy covering an entire building overnight seemed like it would be worthy of more than page three. 

"Look at page one." 

He'd spread that cream cheese awfully fast, Betty noted, but still, she turned back to the front page. **The Penguin Terrorises Gallery Opening!** she read and looked up again. "Who's the Penguin?" she had to ask. It frustrated her a bit, because she liked to think that she had Gotham villains memorized. It was matter of both pride and survival.

"Picture. Bottom of the page, second column."

 _Well you're friendly this morning._ The words almost slipped from her lips, but she thought better of it, instead glancing down the page once more. It took her little time to locate the aforementioned picture. A round, beady-eyed man stared back at her. Perched between his small, closely set eyes was a long hooked nose, round spectacles perched on top. He wore an old fashioned yet dapper coat and tails, though the cumberbund underneath didn't seem to fit just right. His top hat didn't even look clean in the picture. Betty pushed her hair out of her face and scratched her forehead as she stared at the picture. He didn't really look threatening, but she'd learned not to judge a Gotham book by its cover. 

She folded the paper back up after she'd read the caption. _Glitzy Grifter Grabs Gems._ "Good alliteration, 'cept it's kind of obvious the spent some time with the Word thesaurus putting that one together," Betty mused to herself. She paused to see if Bruce would respond, but it was quickly becoming apparent that he wasn't in the mood for small talk this morning. She sighed. "So, the Penguin? And… Arkham was Poison Ivy? The whole green vine thing…"

"Yes." Succinct. She was definitely going to be doing most of the talking this morning.

She watched him, more specifically his face. "Which one of them killed your nose?" 

"The Penguin," came the short answer.

"He must have been jealous." Betty tapped the Penguin's large schnoz in the picture and grinned. "Not that I'm making fun of the guy for his looks or anything, but, well… this is unfortunate. I mean, what…" she trailed off, realizing that Bruce wasn't even giving her the benefit of grunting in response anymore. Usually, he at least did that. 

She sighed. "Okay, not the best of nights." She shuffled a few pieces of paper around on his desk, not really having anything to do with them. It was an unusually quiet morning at the office; perhaps fate's way of balancing out the rough night Bruce had apparently had. "I'm sorry," she offered softly.

It would have been awkward had he spoken too soon, she supposed. It might have sounded as if he were brushing her off, simply not caring for what she'd said. The pause that ensued, off-putting as the silence was, at least let her know that he was considering her words. They weren't empty at all. 

"It's not your fault." Neither were his words empty. Bruce sounded just as sincere as she'd been herself, but Betty recognized the tone of his voice. It wasn't her fault because everything rested on his shoulders. It really was a lot, she thought, to blame the crime rate of an entire city on himself. Even if it was his own alter ego. "Gotham isn't getting any safer."

"Well that's not your fault either," Betty countered. "Two freaks-of-the-week happened to get their weeks confused and all came out at once. It's gotta happen sometimes. You're just one man, remember? And I think you do a pretty good job… just being one guy without powers. You can't do everything yourself. You run a billion dollar company and you work all night putting bad guys in jail. You get three hours of sleep a night. You work _way_ too hard, and you're going to get upset because some guy who calls himself the Penguin _happened_ to get the upper hand for one night? Arkham is on one side of the city and the museum's on the other. You're really good at what you do, Bruce, but you're not two people. Maybe you just need a sidekick. Or a partner. But if not, you can't beat yourself up over things that you can't help."

She sounded like her father, and maybe that surprised her a bit. She hadn't meant to say so much and she certainly hadn't meant to sound as parental as she had. It had gone from pep-talk to stern talking to that she was pretty sure she'd gotten from her father once upon a time at the age of seventeen. 

Just as Betty thought she'd been dismissed through silence –there was only so much awkward paper shuffling a girl could do, after all– Bruce spoke again. His voice was as dark as Betty had ever heard it. "You act as if I have any right to bring someone else into this world."

"Um, hello, I'm standing right here." She couldn't help but point to herself, giving Bruce a look as her nervousness began to slip away once more. As if she was completely in the dark about what he did at nights. 

"That's different," he said almost immediately, as if he'd already known what she'd been about to say. "You're not out there putting your life at risk."

"No," Betty said, looking him square in the eye. "Instead I'm inside putting my life at risk. You're the one who wanted to fire me because you thought it was too dangerous for me to work for you, now that the Joker _knows_. That's dangerous, isn't it? Risky? Whatever you want to call it."

Bruce gave her a look. "It's a risk I'm still not completely comfortable with you taking."

"I'm twenty-three, Bruce, I can make my own decisions. I want to be here," she said, shaking her head. "Maybe you need a vacation."

"Abandoning Gotham is not going to help," he answered. His hand reached out for the coffee mug and he took another sip. 

Betty noted that the mug wasn't steaming anymore. She trotted over to the coffee maker to the side of the room and took the pot off of the hot plate to bring back over to Bruce and top off his mug. When he nodded his thanks she smiled just slightly in recognition of the fact that there was no grunt accompanying his nod. 

"I think," she started slowly. "That a vacation would be good for you. Think about it, you could just go away and take some time to relax. You'd come back feeling refreshed and maybe more focused. Not so much with the blaming yourself for every little thing that happens. Couldn't you ask someone to watch Gotham for you while you're away? Superman? Or that Green Arrow guy? Superman still owes you for that whole thing with… My-zeck-pie-lick?" Betty could feel her tongue knotting up the moment she thought about even trying to pronounce the name.

"Mr. Mxyzptlk," Bruce corrected, somehow saying the imp's name perfectly.

"Right," Betty said quickly. "Him. Superman owes you for that one. You're the one who got him to say his name backwards. Ask him to watch Gotham for a week. Go and take a vacation. Take Dick with you… you have a son now. Bond with him. Go… snowboarding together. Or something." To be honest, Betty really couldn't see Bruce snowboarding, but she was sure he got the point.

Maybe he had. Betty was surprised to see even a trace of enthusiasm cross his features. Nowhere near a smile, but it was something. Betty stepped back, coffee pot still in her hand as she waited for him to give some sign that that really had been enthusiasm she'd seen light up his eyes. 

And then, the words he didn't say very often, but that she _loved_ to hear. 

"You're right."

"I am?"

"You are." Features still grim, Bruce looked straight at her. "On all counts."

"Okay, I don't remember what 'all' was, but I'm going to assume you want to go on a vacation and you want to take Dick." She smiled at him, not-so-secretly pleased with herself. "Where are you going to go?"

He was quiet for a moment before his answer came, clear and sure. "Bhutan."

Betty blinked. "Bhutan? Um… okay." She paused, deciding on exactly how dumb it would make her seem, asking her next question. "What's Bhutan? Er… more importantly, _where_ is Bhutan, and will I be able to get anyone to fly you are Dick there?"

"It's a kingdom in South Asia, and I'll take care of travel plans." Was it her imagination or had his mood just suddenly improved? It wasn't as if he was smiling and singing a jaunty tune, but something in his demeanor had changed noticeably. Betty wasn't going to question a good thing. 

"That's good," she said instead, plastering another smile on her lips. "That's great! You and Dick, seeing the world. Or, well, South Asia. When do you want to go?"

"A month from now." Betty couldn't help but notice how sure of himself he sounded. Not that she was complaining. A happy boss meant a happy day for her. She finally put the coffee pot back on the hot plate and went about finding a pen and pad to start taking notes. 

"How long? One week? Two?" she asked, pen poised above the paper to jot down notes. 

"Six."

Her mouth formed a small **o**. "Six… days?"

"Six weeks," he said.

"That's… definitely a vacation," she commented, but wrote it down hastily. "Six weeks all in Bhutan?"

Bruce nodded. "That's right. Again, don't worry about the travel– I'll deal with it. And you'll be paid for the time off, of course. 

"Really? Thank you." Six weeks paid vacation was definitely not something to complain about. Her eyes were maybe a bit wide and her face may have paled (six weeks paid vacation was something Betty hadn't dreamed of having until maternity leave, and she hadn't exactly planned on taking _that_ any time soon), but she was thrilled. "What are you going to do with Dick in Bhutan for six weeks?"

"You'd be surprised the amount of things you can do there for six weeks." He stood from behind is desk, coffee mug in hand. She watched as he walked over to the large windows that overlooked the entirety of Gotham City. Betty had never been able to go too close. Her fear of heights and a weird sort of motion sickness always got the best of her when she looked out or down.

"Probably," Betty answered honestly. She shrugged a bit, but smiled nevertheless as she slid the pen through the spiral binding on her pad so as not to lose it. "So, I'm going to go cancel your March now."

"Just move everything around. I'll take a busy February, if necessary."

It was going to be necessary, but if Bruce didn't care then neither did she. "Anyone you want me to notify specially? Like Selina?" 

"Selina can find out from the papers like everyone else will, I'm sure," Bruce said simply. 

"Anything else?" she figured there would be, what with this being ridiculously sudden and all. 

He shook his head. "That's all."

Betty nodded and gathered her things in her arms. A final smile was offered before she turned to head out of the room. 

After she'd closed his door behind her, Betty stopped for a few seconds, screwing up her face in confusion and wondering exactly what had just happened back in that office between her and Bruce. She hadn't actually expected him to take her up on her vacation suggestion. She was still a little shocked that he had. Bruce didn't just do things spontaneously. He didn't just… go places. Everything he did was carefully thought out and planned to a tee, even the crazier things he did under his billionaire playboy persona… everything was perfectly planned and executed. 

As she sat down behind her desk, Betty found herself wondering exactly _what_ was in Bhutan.


	5. Chapter 5

When she looked up from her paperwork, there was a book beneath her nose. _The Life of Pi_. It was a good book. In fact, Betty was sure it was her book.

"I finished it on the flight back from Paris. I liked it."

Selina Kyle would have been the last person Betty imagined having a miniature book exchange with if she was one to base her appearances on looks alone. Dressed in her normal sleek and black high fashion attire with her brown hair pulled back into a bun on the side of her head and an in season cap perched atop, Betty had to admit that Selina was not the sort of person she would have imagined enjoyed the works of everyone from Jane Austin to Michel Crichton. It was unexpected, for sure, but it made Selina's visits to the Gotham offices that much more enjoyable. 

Betty liked the older woman as a person in general, but that she could talk literature made it ten times better. On her second visit Selina had walked in carrying not only the copy of _Fast Food Nation_ that Betty had lent her two weeks prior, but also _Midnight's Children_ by Salman Rushdie, telling her that she should try it. It was a complete turnaround from _Fast Food Nation_ , but she'd taken it home with her and read as instructed, surprised to discover that she actually did enjoy the book. 

Betty didn't like to make a big deal of their little exchange, but it was definitely one of the reasons she approved of Selina above and beyond any of the other women Bruce had dated during her tenure. She saw them together at times and she knew their minds – their intellectual minds, at least – matched so well. Together they were a smart, witty pair. While she knew that Selina's job took her to Paris often ( _why_ , Betty didn't quite get, but it was what it was) she didn't understand why she and Bruce didn't just strike up some sort of understanding of exclusivity with each other. It didn't make sense.

Still, she was glad to see Selina and eager to see her reach back into her purse for another book. 

"I'm glad you liked it," Betty said with a grin. She palmed her book, worn with the love of several readings, and quickly stashed it away in her desk drawer. It was one of the few she liked to keep around for slow days. "How was Paris?"

Selina shrugged in a simple yet elegant way that perfectly suited her chic clad petite form. "It was Paris," she answered. 

Betty could only assume that once you'd spent as much time there as Selina had, it became just another city. She sighed slightly; having been to Mexico just wasn't as glamorous or as cool as Paris. She certainly hadn't seen much of Mexico either; more important things had been on her mind.

A book, cover down, was placed in front of her. Selina held it gracefully, like one of those product models on the Price is Right, but with a lot more class. Betty reached out to take it and once it was in her hands, she flipped it eagerly.

" _The Great Gatsby_?" she asked curiously, looking at the familiar cover. She'd seen it dozens of times. How many times had she been assigned to read this book throughout college and high school? 

Selina seemed to understand the look on her face perfectly, and shook her head, holding up a hand. "I know, I know. It's a school staple, but you have to read it again now that you've worked two of the richest men in America. It'll give it a whole new meaning, I'm sure."

Fair point, Betty decided as she grinned and slipped the book into her bag. It wouldn't take her very long to read at all. "Thanks," she said, idly adding, "your earrings are really nice."

"A high compliment coming from someone who worked for the great Mode Magazine," Selina laughed. The emeralds in her ears glinted and flashed against the light. "Thank you, I got them in Budapest."

Betty's face lit up. "Really? Were you there last week? Or was it two weeks ago—there were a bunch of robberies there that made the news all the way here. Whoever it was stole five Rembrants from the major museum, a Monet, and some other pieces. They still haven't caught the guy."

"I'm afraid I missed the excitement; these were actually from one of my earlier visits." Betty, so adapt at noting Bruce's odd changes in demeanor neglected to note the way in which Selina began examining her nails, painted shiny coat of black (in a way that somehow simply looked classy instead of goth). It wasn't exactly an uncommon habit in women, and Betty thought it was just that, a habit. It never occurred to her that perhaps it was a lying habit, and there was no reason it should have. "Though I heard about the thefts and they sounded impressive."

"Yeah, I think Budapest needs a Batman," Betty gave a short laugh at her own joke, another grin coming to her lips.

"Oh no, I'm positive Batman is fine right where he is. You never know what might happen if he leaves Gotham."

Cue the awkward silence, something Betty was used to when she was alone with Mercy Graves (who came around with Lex Luthor far too often for her liking), but not usually with Selina. She watched for a moment as Selina rearranged herself, pushing loose, wayward strands of hair behind her ears, dusting imagined pieces of lint from her shirt, and straightening her skirt before finally smoothing her hands down the entire slimming ensemble. 

Betty had the feeling that for now, their conversation was through. Not in a friendship ending, never-speak-to-you-again sort of way, but in that awkward, 'somewhere along the way an insult was delivered , but I'm so sure where or what I did wrong' sort of way. In other words, the way she often felt after talking to Mark and Amanda, but with a slightly friendlier vibe. It still left her scratching her head.

"Want me to see if Bruce is ready?" she asked after a very pregnant pause which was perhaps far more awkward than it would have been if she hadn't been wringing her hands the entire time.

Selina nodded once, smiling briefly. "Please."

She jumped up from her desk and gathered a few papers needing signatures before opening the thick wooden door which separated her office from Bruce's and quickly slipping through. 

Surprisingly, the air in his office seemed much more relaxed than it had been in her own over those last few moments. She decided, almost immediately, that it was because Bruce wasn't wearing his tie.

"You know, seventy percent of average American men aren't wearing ties to work anymore," Betty said, approaching his desk and setting papers down in front of him.

Bruce looked up, bemused. "You have time to take polls? Am I not giving you enough to do, Betty?"

"I heard it on the news this morning." Her tone said 'duh' even if her words didn't. "Sign here, here, here, and here."

"Do you see me as the average American man?" He still sounded slightly amused as his fountain pen scratched across the various documents. 

Betty gathered the stack of papers once they'd been signed. "Not to much, no. Do I see you as capable of admitting you don't like ties? Maybe."

That got her a laugh and not the awkward silence of her last attempt at a joke. She smiled as she arranged the documents neatly in her hands and reached over Bruce's desk for a paperclip—sometimes she still got a thrill out of the fact that Batman used simple things like _paperclips_.

"Is Selina here?"

She nodded. "She's waiting outside. And I still approve."

"She's only staying for a week," Bruce said, standing from behind his desk. He reached for his tie, which hung neatly --rather, in such a way that wouldn't have given Alfred an aneurism—over the back of an arm chair in front of the large bay windows which looked out over Gotham. 

"It's like you chase her out of the city every time she comes to visit." Betty shook her head and made a face that looked as if a motherly 'tsking' noise should have accompanied, but she kept the nose to herself. 

Bruce shrugged slightly. "In a manner of speaking…" He trailed off and Betty chose not to pursue. It would only lead to another lecture on dumb blondes, and Betty was sure he was as tired of hearing it as she was of delivering it. She just had to be convinced that one day he'd realise that he wanted a girl with more brains than silicone. 

She shook her head again. "So is this the last time you're going to see her before Bhutan?"

"Probably."

"Have you told her that you're going to do the DIL – I mean, the eligible bachelor issue?" Betty asked. She was going to _kill_ Mark when she saw him. Or maybe just force him to wear clothing from the Gap. Both options were likely to make him scream. 

Bruce shook his head, eyeing her. She hoped it wasn't because of her slip. "No. Why?"

"Well," Betty said, carefully choosing her words. "If I was your girlfriend --which I am obviously not-- I'm pretty sure I'd want to know that you were planning on declaring yourself as eligible and attractive to the entire world. Just a thought."

"I'm not declaring that." He straightened his tie, though Betty still had to walk forward and move the knot about. "Mode is."

She tried not to laugh as hard as she wanted to. "What were you saying about not being the Average American male?" When Bruce chose not to respond, Betty simply continued to fix his tie and grinned. "Are you going to tell her you're leaving for the middle of nowhere in March?"

Once she'd finished, he stepped back. "She'll find out eventually."

"Probably," Betty nodded. She readjusted the papers in her hands. "But I'd want to hear it from my boyfriend."

Again, Bruce said nothing. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the desk chair and slipped it easily over his broad shoulders as he prepared to leave. Betty had to admit, she didn't know _much_ about relationships, having not been in many in her day, but she was a woman and she knew that in Selina's position, she'd want the truth, rather than finding it out through the tabloids or the news. She didn't completely understand why Bruce was so against just coming out and telling her, and again wondered exactly what she was missing when it came to the well-read enigma that was Selina Kyle.

"Straight home tonight." Bruce stated it more like a fact than the questioning tone most would have used for such a statement. It was just expected these days and Betty knew that Bruce expected her to know better than to dawdle in Gotham. She did, and despite the exasperated look she gave him at the warning, she took it to heart. It meant he cared and she wouldn't begrudge him that, or herself of the _feeling_.

It was nice, knowing that Bruce Wayne cared about _her_.

She nodded and smiled softly. "Home, I know."

"Good." And he opened her office door for her as he always did, letting her slip through first and hurry to her desk where she started packing up her things. She knew it was time to get going when Selina threw her arms around Bruce and started whispering something in his ear. As someone used to being the awkward third wheel in these sorts of things, Betty knew how to make a quiet exit when needed.

She finished throwing things into her bag, only really taking care with the book Selina had given her which she placed atop of everything else along with her writing notebook. With a pen slipped into the side pocket, Betty was ready to leave for evening.

"Have a good evening," she offered to both Bruce and Selina as she headed out.

The older woman looked away from Bruce briefly, grinning at Betty over his shoulder. "Don't forget about Gatsby, love."

Betty smiled as she opened the door. "I won't. Thanks."

"Gatsby?" she could hear Bruce asked as she headed towards the elevator in the hall.

"Don't worry about it, it's between us girls," Selina purred in answer. "Now, Bruce, I do believe we need to talk…"

As good an eavesdropper as Betty was, even she couldn't hear from behind shutting elevator doors.


	6. Chapter 6

**I.**  
For six weeks of paid vacation, Betty was pretty sure she would have done anything Bruce asked of her in the interim. Some might have argued that it wasn't a vacation if she had to go into Gotham twice a week, but Betty was more than willing to do it. 

Bruce had left for Bhutan with Dick, giving her just a few simple instructions. The usual came first; stay out of Gotham after dark. Betty was well acquainted with this rule, hearing it day in and day out and so when Bruce reiterated the order she simply nodded and sighed. Then came his request that she make sure to check on any paper work that came into the office, which was why she had to venture into Gotham twice a week. She spent about an hour in the office on those days, just sorting through the various stacks of things that came in through the mail and checking her email. Some people had an amazingly difficult time understanding that her boss would indeed be out of town for six weeks (six weeks which could become seven or eight, Bruce had told her on her last 'official' day before he'd left) and she had to constantly email them with notes specifying that there was no possible way he could meet with them when he wasn't even in the country. 

Again, Betty didn't mind it. She was being paid in full and she figured it was the least she could do.

Her final instruction was perhaps unorthodox to what one might assign the average assistant, but then Betty was anything but an average assistant. There were very few assistants—she could only assume—who were asked to check on their boss' cave on a weekly basis. 

Betty always had been the sort of assistant who went above and beyond the call of duty. She suspected that her requested visits were more for Bruce's peace of mind than they were for necessity. From the way he talked, the Bat Cave had better security than the Pentagon. It was impenetrable and she wasn't as naïve to think that little ol' Betty Suarez could do anything that his million dollar security system couldn't. However, she understood that this was the first time he'd ever left Gotham for an extended period since the vigilante thing had started. Betty imagined that it had to be like a mother leaving her newborn for the first time. 

Not that she was ever going to share that analogy with Bruce.

 **II.**  
She would never _really_ get used to the bat droppings. But sense told her that she wouldn't have to, not really, since once Bruce was back from his vacation she wouldn't have to come down here anymore. To be fair, it wasn't as if there was guano all over. There was a fairly sophisticated system set up to keep it off the ground, but ever so often some had to slip through and it seemed that Betty was able to find it all. She would not be wearing her sensible work shoes down to the Cave anymore.

At least it didn't smell. And, well, at least she wasn't afraid of bats. It all helped.

He'd told her not to touch anything, an instruction which she was perfectly comfortable with. She was just supposed to look around, and in general make sure that the Cave (and the rest of the house, really) were in order. Betty had never even intended to leave the staircase, given that she had a perfectly decent view of the Cave from there. However, that was before the first night she walked through the clock in the parlour and down the staircase into the Cave.

There was someone sitting in Bruce's chair.

Betty squeaked. "Uh...."

"Oh, forgive me. I didn't mean to scare you. You must be Betty."

She had learned a long time ago that just because they were in spandex did not mean they were to be trusted, but there was something about this woman that simply radiated trust and honesty. Betty wasn't quite sure what it was. The long dark hair that would put even the best at Mode to shame? The strong features in her face, particularly her eyes and nose, spoke to her. She didn't know why. Her outfit probably would have looked provocative and horrid on anyone else, but on her it simply looked regal. Betty didn't know many who could pull off blue underwear with white stars plastered everywhere. She was perfectly sure that her own butt would look _explosive_ in any such outfit and it would only get worse as the eyes traveled upwards towards the red top with the gold plating around the chest area. Then there were the red boots and the gold rope attached to her hip.

The entire ensemble reminded Betty of something that Amanda would find and wear in Fay Summers' secret closet, but for an entirely different reason.

Betty stood still on the stairs for a moment after the patriotically clad woman had spoken. She knew that she probably looked rather silly and overdressed in comparison. "I—I'm sorry, Br—I wasn't expecting visitors."

"He didn't tell you?" The woman looked apologetic as she spoke and stood from the large, black leather chair. "I'm sorry, my name is Diana. Bruce asked me to sit with Gotham for the week."

" _Bruce_ asked you to…" she couldn't help the slight stutter and surprise to her words as she tried to absorb the few pieces of information coming in. It wasn't much, but it was confusing enough that she had to stop for a moment. "He asked me to—"

"Check in on the Cave once or twice a week, I know," the woman said with a smile. "He let me know you'd be stopping by. It's nice to meet you."

"Um, it's… nice to meet you too. Diana?" She repeated the woman's name and rolling off her lips it simply didn't sound right. Betty made a face, unable to keep the thoughts going through her mind from spilling out of her mouth. "Diana? That's a really normal name for someone wearing… _that_."

Diana's lips split as she let out a laugh. "You could call me Wonder Woman, if that makes you more comfortable."

Because that was less awkward? "No, I think I'll stick with Diana."

**III.**

"We played Canasta."

"Canasta?"

"Mmhmm," Betty nodded, chewing through one of her father's enchiladas. "It was kind of weird to play with two people, but I ran out of poker really quickly and—"

" _Poker_ money?" The last of the tortilla and cheese combination in her hands stopped half way on its journey towards her mouth. Call her crazy, but Betty didn't think Ignacio's voice was meant to reach that particular octive. "Betty, we're you gambling?"

And that one? That was his disappointed voice. Along with that strange new octave of sound she'd not been aware his voice could produce. "I wasn't gambling, dad. He gave it all back and said we should play something that didn't involve me trying to keep a straight face." She paused for a moment. "Is my poker face that bad?"

"Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles could both see through your poker face, Aunt Betty," Justin offered, looking up from the Thursday Styles section of the Times. He glanced at her, using the paper to hide everything by his eyes as he looked up and down. She had the feeling that it was a move he'd been practicing for ages. "They could also see the blinding clash coming from those purple heels and orange socks."

"Justin!," Ignacio warned. Betty wondered whether it was for the blind jokes or making fun of her shoes.

"Sorry," Justin shrugged as he got up from his chair. "She needs a Rachel Zoe in her life and I'm the next best thing."

"What?" 

Betty shook her head. "It's not important, dad." 

"I guess not." He watched as Justin left the kitchen. 

(talking to Ignacio. Omg, poker with green arrow?? Did he try anything with you?! Mention Green Lantern.) Confusion with Green Arrow)

(Talking superman with Christina. Mention Zatanna) 

(Week six. Bruce and Robin home early. OMG. Betty pissed.)


	7. Chapter 7

"I'm really sorry," said Betty for what had to be the fifteenth time since they'd entered the elevator thirty seconds ago on the ground floor of the Meade building.

"I still don't know exactly why you're apologising."

She looked at her boss. She'd seen him stand up to Lex Luthor, muggers, Superman, and the Joker himself, but here? Betty could only see him as a lamb waiting to be slaughtered, and so she apologized. Profusely. Excessively, even. Bruce had absolutely no idea what he'd agreed to. "I'm so sorry."

"Is there a sniper waiting for us at the end of this elevator, Betty?" Bruce asked her. Having Bruce for a boss was odd at times, especially when he said things like that. She never was entirely sure whether or not he was joking and there were times when that was vaguely concerning. There was a smile on his face, but how was she to know whether or not his shoulders were tensed underneath his well pressed and tailored suit. She _hoped_ he was joking and she was going to treat it as such so as not to encourage him.

She smoothed down her pleated black skirt. "Alfred was right," she said instead. "You are droll this morning." Which was Alfred's way of telling her to beware, Bruce was in one of his more macabre moods. She'd skimmed the papers that morning looking for some clue from last night that would have triggered such a grumpy boss this morning, but she hadn't seen anything in the crime blotter other than the usual. No freaks-of-the-week tangling with a bat of urban legend, and so Betty could only assume that Bruce's mood was of his own doing. Optimistically, perhaps he was just missing Selina (who was away for another jaunt in Europe). On the other side of the coin, he was just being morbid for the sake of it.

Still, while the mood worried her, she knew it would effect their day. She'd seen him switch his milionare playboy persona on and off at will too many times to begin worrying now. He would be fine in front of the likes of Wilhelmina Slater.

Betty readjusted her grip on her purse as the elevator came to a slow and smooth halt. "Anyway, I was trying to say sorry for getting you into this. I should have told them you were busy."

"It's a magazine photoshoot, not a walk to the gallows," Bruce answered. The light for Mode's floor flicked on and turned yellow. The elevator dinged.

Shaking her head, Betty sighed. "No," she said. "It's not the gallows. It's a photoshoot. At _Mode_." Choosing perhaps the most ominous and inappropriate time to do so, the doors opened.

There were no firebreathing dragons, no brawling gladiators to greet them. Betty had, perhaps, hyped the Mode experience a bit too much. Was it her imagination or did Bruce look slightly disappointed when there really were no snipers there to greet them? Betty might have honestly preferred snipers to Wilhelmina, if only because they would have been less painful, but instead the sight that greeted them was just… Mode. The modern design, white and large glass paneled doors and windows, bright lighting designed to make everyone look their best yet catch their flaws all at the same time, and sleek furniture (what little there was of it) all seemed to be just as she'd left it. Even the lettuce leaf skinny women and eyelined men all seemed to be the same.

Amanda's desk was, as usual, the center of it all. As such, Betty was perfectly content to pay no attention to the center of the room until it started demanding attention from her. If everything had truly remained as she'd left it then she wouldn't have to wait long.

"Oh my God, someone hide the Crafts table,"

Betty actually smiled a little at the sound of Amanda's voice. At least it was a familiar evil, one she could deal with easily. "Hi, Amanda."

"Bruce," Amanda drawled, completely ignoring her presence. Ah, familiarity.

"Amanda," Bruce returned cordially. The billionaire playboy personal returned as was appropriate and he held out his hand to shake with Amanda. Betty could tell that the other girl had been expecting more than that; maybe a quick go at it under the desk. She did her best not to savour the disappointed look on Amanda's face and not to wonder if she was remembering Selina, the statuesque Beauty in Black.

She cleared her throat, noting that this was a handshake which had gone on for far too long and not by Bruce's choice. "Amanda, could you let Daniel and Wilhelmina know we're here and remember that Bruce might need his hand at some other point in his life?" _You know,_ she refrained from adding, _do your job?_

"There in Studio Three." The blonde shot Betty a particularly nasty look. "Wilhelmina's waiting."

She glanced up at Bruce. "See?" she said. "I told you it gets worse."

"Does she have a sniper rifle?" He retorted.

"You're missing the point." Taking the lead, Betty stepped around the side of Amanda's desk and started towards the clear double doors that led to what most longtime employees referred to as the Back of the House. Straight back led to Daniel's office, but both the left the right lead towards various studios for Mode's few in-house shoots. Wilhelmina has always insisted on personally overseeing the bachelor issue and so it had been shot in building since her reign as creative director began. It was significantly more expensive to cart everything in rather than to go to a location, but Betty knew that Wilhelmina had never been one to care about cost efficiency. 

A quick glance back to Daniel's office didn't stop Betty from noticing the stares ad whispers that followed them as they walked. She didn't react—tried not to, at least—but only because she knew Bruce would pass it all off with a charming smile and nod. He was used to this sort of thing and so was she, by proxy. But he was her boss, she was protective, and she didn't understand _why_ people thought that his adoption of Dick was anything less than moral or _where_ that rumor had started. When she figured out the source they were getting much more than a strongly worded letter.

Bruce turned his smile on her. "Would you like to try and scare me again before we go in?"

"No." They had stopped in front of a pair of double doors. Betty laid a hand on the handle. "But don't say I didn't warn you." And with that she pushed open the doors.

It was pandemonium, just as Betty had expected. No sooner had she turned to face Bruce again than a woman wielding some sort of blush brush pounced, doing her damnedest to insist that Bruce needed to come with her _now_. Voices seemed to be directed their way from every corner of the room, as if none of these people had actually been doing anything until Bruce had stepped into the room. But she knew that wasn't true, because in front of the cameras she could see quite a few good looking men, all who had been abandoned by their photographers as everyone's attentions turned to Bruce. 

For a moment, Betty felt badly for the other non-billionaire bachelors.

Being buried alive in a crush of people was not something that she had any particular desire to experience, and so she stepped back from the rush. She wasn't the center of attention here and she'd warned him, hadn't she? It was like a press conference! The only difference was that here people could get much closer and reach out to try and touch him and shake his hand.

Alfred was going to be less than impressed if he came back with a shirt cuff ripped due to an overly enthusiastic secretary who shouldn't have even been in the room.

"Ahem."

It was like the parting of the red sea, except everyone was clean and better dressed and the woman coming through wasn't the pharaoh or Moses—though she might as well have been both. Photographers, makeup artists, assistants, and overeager secretaries all moved to the side leaving a clear path which, as all things did Betty was beginning to notice, led to Bruce. But he had a competition for attention now. 

"Bruce," Wilhelmina Slater extended a gloved hand. "I'm so glad you could join us."

Betty watched as Bruce extended his hand to greet Wilhemina. She wondered if she was supposed to say something to Marc who stood just behind Wilhelmina, but she was reluctant to say anything once her former boss had opened her mouth. You just didn't speak if Wilhelmina hadn't spoken to _you_. It was some sort of unwritten rule. 

She was all too glad when Bruce spoke up instead. "It's good to see you, Wilhelmina." He took her had in an extremely gentlemanly manner and smiled at her. 

"Likewise," was her easy and short answer. She pulled her hand away as quickly as was polite. Finally, her gaze turned towards Betty. "Betty. You're looking…" it seemed she was having trouble finding a word. "Like yourself.


End file.
